


it all falls down like confetti

by niaandherwords



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Bokuroo cameo, Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, hhh kiyoomi character study of sorts?, lots of metaphors, metaphorically drunk kiyoomi??, side implied bokuaka, some tws in notes!! pls read it, teen and up cause curses are used!!, the real mvp of the fic: confetti
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:42:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25367794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niaandherwords/pseuds/niaandherwords
Summary: He sees the blond hair styled in waves, a radiant white speckle from the disco ball resting on the arch of his cheek, the slope of his nose wine-red, his lips pulled up in a spectacularly infuriating grin, the hair again, and then, the piece of confetti.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 32
Kudos: 213





	it all falls down like confetti

**Author's Note:**

> A FEW TRIGGER WARNING!!  
> 1]There is one line where the word murder is mentioned, no explicit description! just kiyoomi raging because of side characters  
> 2] There are also mentions of Kiyoomi wanting to burn things in a purely metaphorical way (exception: atsumu's shoes)  
> 3] Uh Kiyoomi feels drunk in atsumu's presence so there are metaphors about alcohol
> 
> That's about it I think aaa

The first thing Kiyoomi notices when he walks into the 3bhk flat Bokuto shares with Akaashi, is a table full of what he assumes were refreshments at some point. The table is triangular and jammed between the hallway and the door, which he finds odd, but as he does with other oddities he has encountered in his short 22 years of living, he frowns at it and moves forward.

There is a strong smell of something going wrong already permeating the air.

Ah no, that’s just cologne. Miya’s.

The fact that he remembers or, god forbid, is used to what Miya smells like is something he does not like remembering, so he doesn’t.

The second thing he notices, or the third if one counts the disgusting horribly comforting stench, is the disco ball. Hung from the ceiling and spinning in slow lonely circles. It reminds Kiyoomi of a desolate planet, just twirling and turning to the absence of sound. It spits freckles of light around the room and paints the bare walls with little galaxies. It is much too bright to look at directly. Kiyoomi can feel the back of his eyes tingle and the beginning of a headache take root at the base of his head.

He rethinks his decision to come once more.

And in that moment, when he decides _team bonding be damned he is getting out_ , he hears it.

“Omi-kun!”

Call him delusional, but Kiyoomi is sure he can always feel it before Miya even opens his mouth to call out that disgraceful nickname. Something unfurls in the air, or maybe that’s just the cologne making him dizzy. Atsumu does have that effect on people after all.

Could someone get high off of a smell? Colognes are alcohol-based, aren’t they? Maybe he is drunk then, he thinks. There is no other explanation for the way he reacts around Miya, none that he is willing to acknowledge at least. And anyway, Komori did say he can’t handle his liquor.

He’s still weighing his pros and cons, back turned to the whole scene, one foot out of the door by the time Miya reaches him, and that’s just it. All the pros and cons and lists fade out of his mind like the subject of an old polaroid. Kiyoomi turns around and suddenly the scene changes.

The camera lens goes out of focus, overwhelmed, and then the little cogs turn, the machine makes a small noise (or was that him?) and re-focuses on what is in front of it. Miya Atsumu, in all his 6-feet-and-2-inches of splendor, walking towards him with devilry and honey in his eyes. Kiyoomi can feel the change in pressure within and around him. He forces himself to look away.

The third, or fourth or fifth thing he notices after that--and isn’t that something, he has lost track and it doesn’t matter either way because there is no rhyme or reason to this; he cannot put Miya Atsumu in numbers or letters or words, cannot describe what he feels when he sees him, or keep count of the number of beats his heart skips (he has tried to do it for the past many uncountable moments)--are the shoes.

They are, simply put, an abomination. The itch to see them drenched in flames crawls up his wrists, raising goosebumps.

They are white in color, or they should be, and the design is rather simple, but there is a bunch of huge slap-on stickers of all sizes and colors and-

He moves his eyes upward before he actually does something drastic. The familiar steady feeling of word venom seeping into his tongue grounds him. The quick change in angle distorts the image, or maybe that’s just Atsumu. Once again, Kiyoomi has let his stubbornness overtake his rationality and forgotten, momentarily, how easy it is for him to get drunk

He looks up and there he is. Miya Atsumu. MSBY Black Jackal’s star setter, the jerk with an attitude problem, the subject of adoration of millions of people, the bane of his twin’s existence, and Sakusa Kiyoomi’s loathed cocktail.

He sees the blond hair styled in waves, a radiant white speckle from the disco ball resting on the arch of his cheek, the slope of his nose wine-red, his lips pulled up in a spectacularly infuriating grin, the hair again, and then, the piece of confetti.

It's hot pink in color and Kiyoomi hates it immediately. He hates the fact that he knows the name of such a color even more. He also hates Miya Atsumu and his hair. Blond and wavy. And impossibly attractive.

“Chickenin’ out already, Omi-kun?”

Kiyoomi wonders lazily when exactly did this accent with all its dropped syllables, all the pitched n’s, and the half trailed half rushed words, when did this become normal? He wants to take it back almost. Wants to go back to being by himself in a 2bhk studio flat at a high rise building he left behind. Back to finishing essays a day before submission. Back to when his heart with all its cages was painted shut, the keys swallowed or hidden or thrown and not manifested into a 6 feet something man with charm and venom running in his veins. Back to a normal he was comfortable with.

Back to the before where Miya Atsumu was only a fable, the Prince Charming that visited his dreams to slay him and take away the jewels. Even further back when he had never tasted alcohol straight from the air. Almost.

“Miya,” Kiyoomi says. The syllables move so perfectly behind his teeth he wants to keep them hidden there.

“That’s me.” Miya grins with all the mercy he doesn’t have in himself to grant Kiyoomi. The world tilts on its axis. This has happened enough times by now that it is routine for Kiyoomi to shift his feet in accordance. Miya Atsumu smiles and the world tilts. Gravity lets up for a heartbeat and Kiyoomi thinks he will fly away but in that moment, where he is flirting with the boundary between here and elsewhere, he is reeled back in with such intensity his knees go weak. The atmosphere and all of its molecules rewrap themselves around Earth and it makes the intake of oxygen harder, and yet through all these changes, the confetti, that hot pink piece of paper, is still stuck like a painted target on Miya’s head.

“Hey Omi-Omi, yer eyes okay?” Miya leans in. The world doesn’t stop for Kiyoomi. It turns and he’s thrown off his feet again. It’s all rather unfair in his opinion.

He narrows his eyes, “Yes. I visited the ophthalmologist last month. Why?”

Miya giggles. And in all fairness, this should have served Kiyoomi as a warning sign, but the fact remains that Kiyoomi is drunk, (and it’s all Miya’s fault anyway) so he stays unaware of the wreck that is hurtling towards him.

“Cause ya can’t take ‘em off me.” Miya giggles. Again. The world still does not stop.

The tips of his ears are red. He looks as drunk as Kiyoomi feels.

“Yes well, that is the decency you provide someone who is speaking to you. I don’t believe you would know anything about that, Miya-san.”

There is a word for this feeling. The fluttering of wing-like things in his intestine, the rush of warmth at the base of his neck, his hands twisting and wishing to grasp something that they are not quite sure exists, his entire existence—a too big body, an inexorable mind, and a traitor for a heart—anchored down to one moment. Kiyoomi is sure there is a word for this. There must be; he’d remember it if sobriety had not taken a look at the man in front of him and walked away laughing.

“Now tha’s jus mean, Omi-Omi,” Miya pouts, “Who would know about decency better than me? I’ve let Samu live so far haven’t I? That’s the peak of chivalry if ya ask me.”

He’s still pouting. Eyes that dabble between caramel and honey in sunlight look black with well-worn pride. He’s pouting. Kiyoomi takes it as a personal affront. And yet still the piece of paper stays put. 

“I feel safe knowing nobody is waiting hand and foot to ask you about anything, Miya. Now if you’ll just turn back around, we can both pretend I wasn’t here,” He says because he’s a sadist with a penchant for setting himself—body, mind, heart—on fire, and looks away from the seemingly 10-foot tall bottle of whiskey.

“Not so fast, come on,” Miya whines. “Ya just got here Omi. Ya haven’t even seen what Kou-chan and Ji-kun have put up as bet-bait this time.”

“I’m not even remotely curious,” he says. What he doesn’t say is that he is dying to record the chaos and send it to Komori, but it’s been a bad day, and he’s not too sure if a room full of loud, mostly extroverted teammates is what he needs right now.

“Such a liar. See? Yer touchin’ the back of yer wrist. That’s the ‘I’m embarrassed at myself for wanting to indulge in regular 20-year-olds’ shenanigans’ tell,'' Miya's smirk wobbles. “Or well, somethin’ along those lines.” The air around them shifts. It’s really hard to focus on anything that is not tinted red, or hot pink, and Kiyoomi hadn’t even realized his wrist was itching. Miya Atsumu is smirking and Kiyoomi is damned. He decides if he’s going down he might as well set the confetti on fire with him.

“I have no such ‘tells’ nor any idea of what you’re spouting about.” He tries to turn his back to Miya, but the gravitational pull is stronger the closer you are to something celestial, and Atsumu, this Kiyoomi is sure of, Atsumu is ethereal. Something big and beyond his reach. Yet here and now he feels almost tangible. Kiyoomi really doesn’t want to turn away. He wants to reach out, rip away the paper abomination that is staining his vision. Kiyoomi wants.

“Alright, alright, I hear ya,” Miya waves his hand in dismissal. “How ‘bout you just step in, have some water, let me grab my jacket and then we can both leave to better places! Sound good?”

Leaving with Miya Atsumu makes the same sound that every bad decision Kiyoomi has avoided in his life would make if it took the form of one inescapable—purely because he doesn’t want to escape it—amalgamation of fear, truth and uncertainty. He wants to swallow it whole. Fill his cavities to the brim and seal his mouth shut with this. Kiyoomi _wants._

“You have 7 minutes to get your shit and meet me by the door. One second late and I will not hesitate to leave you behind.” He looks back inside the hallway, the table, the slow orbit of the disco ball, and suddenly they don’t look as aversive. He moves past Miya and submerges the urge to chop his hair off just so the hot pink thing will be gone with it, and ventures in. It’s difficult--gaining escape velocity--but he manages somehow.

Miya is right behind him, chuckling, and it’s enough to push Kiyoomi from tipsy to flat-out drunk. He stumbles when it reaches the back of his ears. Kiyoomi really needs to get some water into his body before he loses control entirely.

The disco ball casts a little piece of light on every corner of the room. Its presence alone fills up Kiyoomi’s vision. Has he developed a habit of focusing keenly on things brilliantly bright and out of reach, he wonders, and then with the same easy dismissal he reserves for thoughts concerning Miya Atsumu, he discards it and keeps walking away from one shiny thing towards another.

49 seconds in he can no longer sense Miya’s shadow. He takes the fresh air in desperately and keeps moving. The noise comes back, or his brain decides functioning is worthwhile once again, and it’s all so loud he really doesn’t want to be here. 

That and the floor is covered completely with paper cut outs. Not just any paper cutouts, but rectangular, 2 centimeters wide and about 5 centimeters long, hot pink paper cut-outs. Kiyoomi hates them.

He spends a good minute trying to burn the room with will alone. Which is why he doesn’t notice the mountain-like shadow of a person towering over him. That is, until it lets out a high-pitched shriek and wraps a pair of tree-trunk-thick limbs around his torso.

“KIYOOMI-KUN,” Bokuto Koutarou outright screams in his ear. “Have you seen Tetsu somewhere?” Kiyoomi gently tries to throw him off his feet. Kiyoomi also has no idea where the aforementioned species is. “You know Tetsu right? About my height, super lanky, annoying ex-middle blocker with that chicken hair? Man, I feel like I haven’t seen him in decades and I miss him terribly. Wait of course you know him, he’s my best friend!” Bokuto doesn’t move an inch. Kiyoomi stops listening and focuses his energy on getting out of the very tight and very aggressive hug.

They stand there, in the middle of the doorway, for approximately 35 seconds before Kiyoomi’s patience runs out. He gives up on shoving Bokuto and instead starts stomping on his feet. This, like the previous attempts of getting him away, does not faze a drunk Bokuto. Kiyoomi still keeps on trying. If he were a lesser man, which is to say if he had less pride and a better habit of asking for help when needed, he would’ve called out to the seemingly million busy bodies moving around them. But Kiyoomi grew out of that habit when he turned 10. Kiyoomi is also borderline wasted.

So he keeps his mouth shut and struggles alone.

He has a list of things. Words, phrases, actions, that he puts into use when he needs someone out of his vicinity. This has rarely, if ever, failed him. The only few exceptions so far are Komori, Atsumu, Hinata, and apparently a very drunk and oblivious Bokuto Koutarou.

Kiyoomi is about to bite the arm closest to his teeth when someone shoves him. Again. He really shouldn’t have come.

He realizes three things in rapid succession:

1) Kiyoomi feels his chest being squeezed by the vice-like grip holding him hostage. He also feels a scream bubble in his throat. His legs buckle with the force and suddenly a sea of hot pink confetti smirks up at him, waiting for him with open arms to fall into.

2) Bokuto has somehow gotten his legs entangled with Kiyoomi’s. This perhaps is a better reason for their sudden and quick descent.

3) And there he is, Kuroo Tetsurou. It's Kuroo, because of course it is Kuroo. Who else would be stupid enough to not only scream and shove but also pretty much climb onto Bokuto Koutarou with no warning whatsoever.

The three of them fall victim to the merciless floor. Kiyoomi, cushioning his fall with his hands lies a hair’s breadth away from kissing the hot pink bane of his existence. Above him still mumbling and seemingly unaffected is Bokuto. And above Bokuto is a cackling Kuroo Tetsurou.

All the panic Kiyoomi stores in specially made compartments inside his body is bursting and rushing like an aimless river through his veins. 

Kiyoomi is seriously contemplating murder. He’ll start collecting body bags if he doesn’t end up in one himself, which seems more and more likely the longer he is crushed under the weight of two flesh mountains. He is cursing out the universe when it happens. Miya Atsumu finds him. Stuck to the floor with a 200kg human-shaped paperweight. Kiyoomi has internally died a million deaths in the past 3 minutes.

He expects a lot of things, but for Atsumu to gasp and heroically destroy the mountains to unearth him is not one of them.

Regardless, this picture is familiar too, he has dreamt of things not much different from this for years. Usually, he is the mountain, but being the one saved is quite alright too. When it concerns Miya Atsumu, Kiyoomi finds, he is alright with a lot of things.

And then-

“WHAT ARE YE DOIN, YE FREAKIN HEATHENS,” Atsumu’s indignation shines through the chaos (much like the man himself).

Suddenly Kiyoomi’s back is a battlefield, Miya Atsumu, the tyrant king with his million puppet army, valiant and radiant, fighting off against the twin forces of two professional athletes and Kiyoomi’s anxiety. The result of this almost massacre lies securely behind his ribcage. He would deny its existence if asked, and yet. The weight lifts, a hand—so unbearably familiar he hates it—palm up and waiting. An offer. A peace treaty. The answer thrashes wildly. What will it be, Kiyoomi? What will it be?

An abundance of violence brings about the same sense of peace as resignation or acceptance. Kiyoomi has been at war with himself for half a decade now, but this moment feels a lot like acceptance, and Kiyoomi wants it. If it all goes south, he can blame it on the drink.

He reaches out.

Kiyoomi could write poetry about this moment if his heart were a steadier organ and did not threaten bursting every time he sees Atsumu. But all he can string together at the moment is: This doesn't feel gross. Not with you

The moment ends too soon. It leaves him unsteady. Atsumu retracts his hand and takes Kiyoomi’s heartbeats with it. Kiyoomi is grateful and seething with embarrassment. His rage condenses down to the hot pink scrap of paper. He doubles the intensity of his gaze, but it remains motionless. It is as infuriating as the man it has attached itself to.

Bokuto and Kuroo are cuddled together where they fell. It’s disgusting to even look at, so Kiyoomi doesn’t spare them a glance.

“I didn’t know you liked bein’ face down on the floor so much hmm, but I s’pose we learn new things every day.” The devil is held hostage in Miya’s smile, and the moment still ends too soon.

Ah, for a second there Kiyoomi forgot Miya Atsumu is a professional asshole.

“One, I don’t want to talk about it. Get the gutter out of your head. Two, this was a mistake, and three, I’m leaving.”

“I hear ya, cap’n, lets go.”

# ***

The walk from the fifth floor of the apartment building to the sidewalk under the chilling breeze is a hazy thing for Kiyoomi. The remains of his embarrassment build a house around him in a 2-foot radius and forbid him from looking anywhere that is not the ground he wants to be swallowed up in. Miya is behind him. He can feel the cologne drifting from the dip of Atsumu’s collarbone, rising in smoke like fingertips, enticing Kiyoomi with each breath. He keeps his head down and his pace quick.

They don’t talk on the way down. The quiet is equal parts comforting, mortifying, and achingly awkward.

He only remembers the feel of the tiled staircase under his thundering feet, Atsumu just a step behind. A choreography where a single misstep will force them both to fall heart first down the void. Kiyoomi keeps walking.

In what feels like a moment he’s back under the quiet sky.

“So where to now, Omi-kun?” Atsumu drawls from somewhere in his three-foot periphery, and Kiyoomi throws any notions of the night being silent out of his head.

“The subway, Miya, where else could we possibly go at 11 in the night? The shopping mall?” Kiyoomi refuses to look at him.

“I was thinking more along the lines of an izakaya, but you know, if you wanted a cliché first date, Omi-Omi, all you had to do was ask nicely. I’m sure I can fit you into my schedule next week.” 

The sheer nerve of this man. Kiyoomi wants to set the entire world on fire. He can feel the irritation climb up from the back of his neck to the narrow space between his eyebrows and in a moment of recklessness he whirls around. 

How dare Miya even _suggest_ Kiyoomi would beg him for a date?

“You--” 

Goddamn it all to hell. If Atsumu, doused in splintered light, halfway drenched in shadows, looked good, then this Atsumu, hair gently swaying in the breeze, hands stuffed in the pocket of his denims, eyes impossibly bright, standing beneath the street lamp, is ethereal.

But that isn't what stops him. Kiyoomi is used to the breathlessness that grips his throat every time Atsumu is near. Used to losing track of his thoughts. Used to all the ways his body, mind, heart, react to Atsumu. Used to it all enough to be prepared.

What he isn’t prepared for, is the confetti.

Hot pink and stuck by some force greater than the universe to Atsumu’s fringe. 

Atsumu’s fringe, which looks impossibly soft and annoyingly attractive.

Kiyoomi is not prepared for this.

“Me?” Atsumu, eyes wide, points towards the center of his chest. “What about me, Omi-kun?” The faux innocent expression rests on his face precariously. 

Kiyoomi has had just about enough of this guy.

"Ya gotta be more specific y'know," Atsumu walks towards him. Two whole steps, each slow and deliberate. Kiyoomi's heart skips two heartbeats. Yet his entire self is grounded and narrowed down on that stubborn hot pink confetti.

"Specific.," His tongue feels heavy, like someone has emptied a jar full of honey into his mouth. "Might as well be specific then."

Kiyoomi covers a half-foot distance. 

"Miya." The way this name rolls off of his tongue is addicting. Kiyoomi is drunk enough to indulge in such disastrous habits. "Stay utterly still. One move and I will not hesitate to punch you."

He's still not quite sure where this confidence is coming from. He's been skirting around this confrontation for about a decade, too afraid of the unknown. But Kiyoomi has had enough of this man. Enough of his six-foot-tall self being one daring step away. Enough of his soft blond wavy hair. Enough of that stupid hot pink confetti drawing his eyes away. Enough. Kiyoomi has had a lifetime of enough. 

He wants so badly, and in this moment, under the street light, his wanting doesn't seem fruitless.

He lets himself look at Atsumu. 

Looks into his eyes--black with a hint of honey--sees the shock and awareness written in them. Sees the way Atsumu's fists clench, arms tense, inside the pocket of his jacket. Sees Atsumu’s bottom lip disappear between his teeth. Sees the wind play with the ends of his hair. And then the confetti. 

It astounds Kiyoomi, how despite everything, that damned piece of paper refuses to let go. The annoyance that has been building up since the first time he saw it is making him exceedingly reckless, and so he takes in a deep breath and looks back into Atsumu’s eyes.

Kiyoomi allows himself to feel half a decade’s worth of emotions for half a second. Then the rage settles itself like a comfortable blanket around his shoulders.

He walks one-fourth of a step closer to doom; canvas-covered toes about nine centimeters away from those blasphemous once-white converse. 

He extends one hand, cradles Atsumu’s jaw, and the world finally-- _finally_ \--comes to a standstill.

He is so close. So close to something that has always been out of reach. He feels suspended in mid-air, tethered to Earth only by the palm of his hand on Atsumu’s jaw, and wonders if this is how astronauts feel. So close to something celestial, but not close enough.

Kiyoomi keeps his eyes on the paper, and slowly wills his other arm to move upwards.

In the time it takes for his right hand to obey his muddy brain, he makes the mistake of looking into Atsumu’s eyes. Or rather Atsumu’s eyelids.

It hits him like a meteorite crashing into Earth. Miya Atsumu has his eyes closed. Kiyoomi is holding his jaw, barely a fourth of a step away from him, and Miya Atsumu has his eyes closed. 

Kiyoomi does not--can not--think of the implications of this. He simply loses his wits and the ability to breathe along with a few heartbeats. His heart is an unreliable organ, it pumps up an abrupt supply of blood which heads directly to the arch of his cheeks, and in this cold autumn night, Kiyoomi feels suffocatingly warm.

His right-hand jerks loudly and stills a millimeter away from the devil’s creation (or the devil’s creation’s hair). 

Atsumu still has his eyes closed. The world still isn’t moving.

Kiyoomi lets this sink in. Feels the frozen ground beneath his feet, the warmth of Atsumu’s cheek, and _holy fuck._

Kiyoomi grins, Atsumu opens his eyes, the world starts spinning again.

“I don’t kiss on first dates, Miya,” He says, while swiftly (and fucking finally) plucking that hot pink paper from Atsumu’s hair. He holds it between them, as a declaration, and smirks right back at Atsumu’s bewildered tomato-red face. 

He lets the confetti fall in the narrow space between them. It sits there with the weight of Kiyoomi’s statement, with the weight of Atsumu’s response. It is extremely satisfying.

Atsumu doesn’t let him have the upper hand for too long, he looks up at Kiyoomi and outright laughs.

“So, walking down five flight of stairs is your definition of a first date, Omi-kun?” Atsumu tilts his head right into Kiyoomi’s palm like a tamed cat, and _oh,_ Kiyoomi is still holding him.

“Hah, how easy do ya think I am?” There is this glint in Atsumu’s eyes. Kiyoomi will set fire to the whole world and die because Miya Atsumu and his eyes scream of mischief _and Kiyoomi is not prepared for this_.

“You are literally nuzzling into my palm, Miya, I don’t think I need to answer that.” God Kiyoomi is so grateful for his whip-fast tongue.

Another chuckle shoots past Atsumu’s lips, it sends vibrations up from Kiyoomi’s palm to that part of his brain where little Joy-Kiyoomi stores all of his core memories.

“Fair. But does this mean you’ll go on a date with me if I ask ya out?”

“I don't know, guess you’ll have to ask first.” He retracts his hand slowly, letting his fingertips rest for five selfish seconds on the underside of Atsumu’s jaw.

“How mean of ya, Omi-Omi, but okay, good to know.” Atsumu grins, all teeth like a hungry cheetah one second away from sinking its canines into the kill. Kiyoomi can’t look away.

“So? Aren’t you going to ask me?” He takes a step back, turns around, and waits for Atsumu to catch up. 

The air hanging around him tastes like summer, it reminds him of his first National Youth Camp, of exhilaration and impatience, of the first time he met Miya Atsumu. He waits.

“Nope.” Kiyoomi can hear the laughter Atsumu is holding back as he crosses the one-step distance between them.

“You infuriate me.”

“Ha, and ya still like me. So who’s the real winner here?”

“I never said that.” 

“You agreed to go out on a date with me.”

“Not yet.”

“Only cause I haven’t asked yet. Also cause yer too chicken to ask me out yerself.”

“Your delusions are worrying,” It's so easy to fall back into their usual rhythm. Still, Kiyoomi feels a little disoriented, as if the universe started spinning in the opposite direction and someone forgot to inform him of this.

Kiyoomi keeps his pace fast. All the little cells inside of him buzz with energy, and he feels downright intoxicated.

Atsumu matches his pace, they take a right turn into the main street, and Atsumu hops onto the raised edge of the footpath.

“Omi-kun,” The trashy nickname sounds like cotton candy to Kiyoomi’s ears. He doesn’t think he will ever get used to it.

“Hm?”

Atsumu tries to walk in a straight line on the narrow edge, Kiyoomi gives him 5 seconds before holding his hand--palm up--out for Atsumu. He waits.

Kiyoomi has always thought of Atsumu as something celestial, large, and out of reach enough to have a gravitational pull of his own. He never thought he’d be lucky enough to not only be embraced into the orbit, but have Atsumu orbit right back around him.

Atsumu links their fingers, sways, and falls off of the edge, but Kiyoomi is there. Their hands stay intertwined together. They keep walking.

“Omi-kun,” A pause, “Holding hands is sort of nice, isn’t it?”

“It’s not too bad,” Kiyoomi says. _Not with you_.

**Author's Note:**

> AAAAAA IM SO HAPPY ITS DONE!!! But honestly, it wouldn't exist without my wonderful betas so huuuugeeee shoutout and lots of love to Maya (bokutoposting on twt) and Blythe (spinoffprotag on twt)!! i adore u guys very much aaa
> 
> ALSO a big thank u to SASS, I dont think I would've written a fic ever if I wasn't in the server diekdjlsko;
> 
> also!! its my first time writing so constructive criticism is welcomed!!
> 
> find me on twt at kiyoomimiyaa!!


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